The Living Ghosts

I have mourned the living more than the dead—

cried over names that still breathe,

faces that walk this world unaware

of the graves they’ve left inside me.

No funeral, no flowers, no final goodbye—

just silence,

a slow fade,

a change in tone,

a door that once opened,

now always closed.

You’re still here.

Somewhere.

But not here with me.

And that hurts in a way no casket ever could.

I grieve you in fragments:

the sound of your laugh

buried under dust in my memory,

a photo I forgot to throw away

but still can’t bring myself to look at.

I grieve the way I used to call you,

without hesitation.

Now I draft messages I never send,

hold my phone like it’s a relic

from a world that no longer exists.

I grieve what I thought you were,

and what I thought we were.

Because it wasn’t just you I lost—

it was the future I built in my mind

that unraveled quietly,

thread by thread.

Some people leave like hurricanes—

loud and breaking everything in sight.

Others slip out like whispers

and you don’t realize they’re gone

until the silence screams louder

than they ever did.

And there are still those who sit

right across the table

but feel galaxies away.

We speak,

but we don’t talk.

We touch,

but we don’t feel.

They are the worst ones to lose—

the ones who vanish while standing in front of you.

I’ve mourned mothers who no longer mother,

siblings turned strangers,

friends who became timelines

and unread messages.

Lovers whose absence showed up

while they still shared my bed.

I’ve held tears for people

who still have birthdays and breath,

but no place in my life anymore.

There’s a loneliness in grieving the living.

No one brings casseroles

or sends condolences

when the death is invisible.

I’ve stood in crowded rooms

with a smile on my face

and a graveyard in my chest.

They ask, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine,”

but I want to scream:

I’m mourning someone who still answers to their name,

but doesn’t answer to mine.

I wonder if you know.

I wonder if you miss me.

I wonder if you ever feel

the echo I live with.

Or maybe you’re just fine.

Maybe I was the only one who felt

anything worth grieving.

Still, I write poems

and hold memories like fragile things.

Still, I talk to the version of you

that exists only in my head—

the kind one,

the honest one,

the one that stayed.

Sometimes I dream you come back.

Not just in body, but in spirit—

the real you.

You sit beside me and say,

“I never meant to go. I didn’t know I left.”

And I cry,

because you say it like you mean it.

Like the past is reversible.

Like we can press rewind.

But I wake up,

and the air is heavier

because you are still gone

in the way that counts.

There’s a kind of freedom in letting go,

but grief is never a straight line.

Some days I feel strong.

Other days,

I hear your favorite song

or find your handwriting in an old notebook

and the ache comes roaring back.

Not because I want you here—

not anymore.

But because

I remember who you used to be

before the world or pride

or addiction

or distance

or silence

changed everything.

I’ve made peace with your absence.

But not with the way you left.

Not with the fact that

you didn’t fight to stay.

And maybe that’s the hardest part:

not the loss,

but the choice.

Your choice

to let me become a memory

you were okay forgetting.

But I won’t forget.

Because love doesn’t vanish

just because a person does.

And grief doesn’t need a tombstone

to be real.

Some of us walk this world

carrying coffins

only we can see.

Smiling.

Working.

Laughing.

But grieving—

every damn day.

So if you ask me

why I still hurt over someone

who isn’t even dead,

I’ll tell you:

Because sometimes,

the hardest goodbyes

are the ones you never got to say.